Dawnflight (The Dragon's Dove Chronicles Book 1)

by Headlee, Kim

  Angusel drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. He had no doubt that the herdsman had sold the island to the Scáthinach invaders. Some detached portion of his brain wondered what the man was saying to the small conclave of Scáthinaich who were the apparent leaders of the force. He ruthlessly shoved curiosity aside. Smiling grimly, he aimed the bow and waited for the traitor to move back into range.

  The commanders’ meeting ended when the last of the troops landed on the beach. Something flashed golden-bright in the morning sun as it arced through the air from the hand of one of the leaders. The herdsman snatched it with greedy dexterity and stashed it in a pouch hidden beneath his hide-patched tunic. The Scáth clapped him on the back. The whiplike auburn braids flanking the war-chieftain’s face swung to the rhythm of his laughter. He moved off to join his men, a unit of the most elitely armed warriors Angusel had yet seen.

  The one-eyed man bowed and turned back toward the path leading from the beach.

  An arrow in the throat seemed too good a death for the traitor. And he saw a way to avenge the blow the herdsman had dealt to his pride a few days earlier.

  He released the tension on the bowstring and laid the bow and arrow in the sand. The quiver followed. As he unsheathed his long hunting knife, he was overwhelmed by the desire to carve out the man’s guts, deprive him of his manhood, and then slit his throat.

  Tracking the cattle herder’s slow progress up the sandy bluff, he considered letting his prey go. A glance at the departing Scáthinach troops reminded him that time was not his ally. Yet the man’s betrayal had earned death, if only for Gyan’s sake. It was the least Angusel could do for her…and the last.

  He tightened his fingers around the knife handle, gathered himself into a crouch, and waited.

  Stonn’s impatient snort betrayed Angusel’s position. The man jerked his head toward the hollow. Propelled by burning anger, Angusel sprang.

  The herdsman’s lone eye rounded in surprise and narrowed as recognition set in.

  As Angusel watched the broken-nailed fingers claw toward his face, he realized this would not be the kind of fight for which he had been trained. Against each other, warriors followed certain rules of engagement. Not many, granted, but they were religiously observed. Commoners, as Gyan had remarked, knew none.

  Still, this was not unlike the scrapes he had gotten into with the other lads back home at Senaudon. But in those fights, the only things at stake were pride and honor, the only risks scratches and bruises.

  To survive this game, he threw away the rules.

  Angusel ducked the blow, whirled, and connected a booted foot with the man’s groin to send him sprawling, groaning, to the ground. Knife poised, Angusel pounced. But the herder had recovered enough to heave Angusel away like a bundle of cattle fodder. Angusel rolled to his feet in time to see his foe bearing down upon him, bellowing rage. A rust-flecked iron dagger sprouted like a talon from one hairy fist. The good eye gleamed with malice.

  The combatants locked arms in a deadly dance, each writhing to free his weapon hand from the other’s grip. Angusel dug his fingers into the spy’s tendons with brutal ferocity. Reluctantly, the hand opened. The dagger slipped to the ground.

  Before Angusel could press the advantage, the herdsman landed a savage kick to his knee. Searing pain tore up and down the leg. He stumbled backward. His knife was jarred from his grasp as he fell.

  He rolled clear as the heavier man tried to leap on top of him, but he couldn’t get to his feet in time. A hard blow to the jaw drove his head into the sand. Reflexively, Angusel brought up his hands to grip his foe’s arms as the thick fingers tightened around his throat.

  Like a beacon, Gyan’s image flashed into the spreading blackness. With a surge of strength, Angusel broke the stranglehold, punched at the glaring eye, and twisted free. As he lay gasping on his back, his outflung hand landed on cold metal.

  Gratefully, Angusel retrieved his knife. The herdsman leaped. The blade bit into the unprotected belly. Angusel shoved the wounded man off.

  Panting, he withdrew the knife and stood. A crimson flood burst from the wound. Yet the man lived, feebly flailing at his torn, bloody tunic. Angusel took no chances. He drove the knife through the spy’s throat.

  “That is what I’m made of, you stinking traitor,” he spat at the dead man.

  He cleaned his knife on the grass, sheathed it, faced Tanroc…and swore. During the fight, the first ranks of the Scáthinach army had covered more than half the distance to the fort. There was no way to skirt the column unseen and arrive ahead of it.

  With bow and quiver, he limped to where Stonn was patiently cropping the salty grass. Climbing into the saddle was painful, but he managed. He sat astride his stallion and massaged the injured knee, thinking.

  His only option was to ride to Port Dhoo-Glass and alert Urien. As Angusel reined Stonn around, he groaned. A group of Scáthinaich had split from the larger column, heading southeast, toward Dhoo-Glass.

  Why had the gods spared his life only to rob him of this one slender chance to save Gyan? What had he ever done to displease them so much?

  His gaze fell upon the fleet serenely riding the waves in the bay. It reminded him of the signal relay. Raising the alarm would bring the wrath of Arthur the Pendragon upon the Scáthinaich.

  Pointing Stonn to the northeast, he kicked him into a gallop, but not toward the main signal beacon. Light from Mount Snaefell would be seen by friend and foe alike. Angusel raced for the small outpost at the northern tip of the island, Ayr Point.

  On the bluff overlooking the beachhead, the first ravens had noticed the patch-eyed corpse. A stiffening hand clutched the pouch containing a bauble the herdsman had not lived long enough to enjoy.

  GYAN WAS midway through her Ròmanaiche lesson in the monastery when the church bells started pealing wildly. As one, she and Brother Lucan ran to the window, which overlooked Tanroc across the strait.

  Scáthinaich! Lying, cowardly, heathen Scáthinaich were pouring over the hills in a raucous flood. She could practically smell their lice-ridden hides. And there wasn’t enough time to return to the fort before the portals were sealed. Her first chance to prove herself in battle, and she was trapped at the monastery like a caged rabbit!

  A detachment broke away from the main column. To her horrified surprise, the smaller unit began heading toward the strait. What could these animals possibly want with the peaceful servants of the One God? Or was wanton destruction their evil game?

  She would not let that happen while she had breath in her lungs. Bracing palms against the window ledge, she racked her brains to devise a plan.

  At high tide, the only approach to St. Padraic’s Island was by boat. But the tide was at its lowest ebb, and the channel would not be difficult to wade. Without archers to defend the strait, the monastery was totally vulnerable.

  There had to be another way to thwart the Scáthinaich!

  She addressed Brother Lucan, who was twisting and untwisting a fold of his robe as he watched the advancing troops. “Do you have weapons?”

  “Do I? Oh, you mean the monastery.”

  “Yes, yes. Swords, knives, pitchforks—anything!”

  “A few things, my lady. Hidden in the church’s side chapels. Some of us even know how to use them. I do,” the monk said proudly.

  “Good.” She caught his hand and pulled him into a run. “I’ll need all the help I can get.”

  As they dashed outside and headed toward the church, she noticed that the other monks were converging upon the same destination. “You meet here to make your stand?”

  “If we have to,” Lucan replied between breaths. “Mostly to pray. And to hide the valuable things.”

  They stopped outside the building. Gyan surveyed the timber roof of the Sanctuary of the Chalice and shook her head. “If they torch the roof and we’re inside, we’re dead. Distribute the weapons to those who can use them. Hide the Chalice and the other valuables, if you must. But bring everyone out here to me.
Quickly!”

  As Lucan ran into the church, Gyan circled its perimeter. She formed a silent prayer of thanksgiving for the long-dead architect who had designed the cruciform structure. Two stone walls afforded much better protection than one.

  She selected the corner facing away from the monastery’s entrance for the greatest surprise factor and awaited the monks.

  Of the hundred-member monastic community, fewer than thirty carried weapons of any sort. Gyan counted a handful of swords and a few more daggers and war-knives. The remaining armed monks clutched staffs. Only Gyan wore armor, and only because she hadn’t bothered to change after weapons practice.

  Dafydd and Morghe had also been trapped at the monastery. Dafydd she wasn’t overly worried about. But Morghe’s presence created a special problem.

  “Against the wall, Morghe,” she ordered, in Breatanaiche. “Try to stay hidden.” When Morghe began to protest, Gyan stated coldly, “Do it. The Scots have quite an appetite for beautiful slave women.”

  “But Arthur would never let—”

  “But Arthur is not here. Now, move!” As Morghe rather sullenly obeyed, Gyan looked around. To no one in particular, she said, “Where’s Angusel?”

  One of the monks shrugged. “He never came for his lesson with me this morning, my lady. I don’t know where he could be.”

  In Caledonaiche, Gyan thoroughly cursed her ill fortune. Not only could she have used the warrior at her side, but his presence there meant not having to worry about where he was. Protecting Morghe and the monks single-handedly was a burden great enough for the hardiest veteran.

  Ogryvan’s lessons had never prepared her for what surely must be the worst aspect of combat: the waiting. Hearing the enemy’s shouts and the monks’ frantic whispers grow louder. Feeling the bloodlust boil in her veins. Fighting the urge to break rank and vent her rage on the closest Scáthinach target. Time crawled.

  When she thought she was about to die of anticipation, the first soldiers rounded the corner of the church.

  “Brethren, attack!” Without turning to see who followed her, Gyan lunged into the enemy’s midst.

  Killing was easier than she had expected. Though vastly superior in numbers, these men fought little better than straw targets. But they looked and sounded and smelled far worse when she was through with them. She had often wondered whether she would feel sorrow toward the victims of her sword.

  How could she feel anything but contempt for these filthy dog-pigs, who had invaded without provocation? They had the audacity to threaten her life and the lives of those she had come to love. And they paid for the outrage in this world’s most precious coinage.

  The death of a comrade was another matter entirely. When Lucan fell, screaming and clutching his middle in a hopeless attempt to prevent the spread of the scarlet stain, she wanted to stop in mid-swing and rush to his side. Grief ached like a gaping wound in her chest.

  The menace of slashing Scáthinach swords rekindled her battle frenzy. More invaders tasted death served by her voracious blade. Yet, despite her efforts, she could not turn the brunt of that menace upon herself. The Scáthinaich seemed strangely reluctant to cross swords with her except in self-defense. The rare offensive blow was struck not with the weapon’s edge but with the flat.

  The enormity of the insult drove her hand even harder. “Leave them alone, all you murdering Scáthinaich cù-puic!” she howled. “It’s me you want!”

  Soon they taught her the terrible truth of those words.

  Chapter 21

  “ANGUSEL, THIS IS absurd.” Centurion Bohort fingered the stout applewood rod that was the symbol of his authority as commander of Ayr Point. “My lookouts would have spotted the fleet as it crossed over from Hibernia.”

  They had been discussing the matter for several minutes. Actually, “arguing” fell closer to the mark in Angusel’s estimation. Nay, that wasn’t accurate, either. Angusel was arguing. The centurion was refusing to believe him.

  He made an effort to steady his voice. Perhaps quiet reason would serve him where loud urgency had failed. “Not if they crossed by night, without lights, sir.”

  “Impossible. The Scots are good seamen, I’ll grant you, but they don’t use that tactic in their raids.”

  “With all due respect, Centurion, I don’t think a fleet of thirty warships is a mere raid.” Angusel shook his head in frustration. “Besides, they had to have sailed last night. The ships were anchored offshore when I saw them, not an hour after first light.”

  “A fine story, my lad, but I’ve more important matters to attend to.” Something approaching a tolerant smile crept across Bohort’s rugged face. “You’ve had your sport for the day. Go back to Tanroc”—returning to his work table, he flicked his hand in a casual wave of dismissal—“before I really get angry with you.”

  Caution be hanged! There had to be a way of getting this man’s attention. “I can’t go back to Tanroc, sir. It’s probably under attack, and Port Dhoo-Glass is sure to be next!”

  The centurion rounded on Angusel, tolerance hardening into ire as he brandished his rod in Angusel’s face. “Now, see here—”

  “Please, sir, you’ve got to believe me! Just send someone to look. If there’s no fleet, then you can send me to Tribune Urien and—” Squaring his shoulders, Angusel summoned his last drop of sincerity. “And have him throw me into the viper pit!”

  Centurion Bohort’s eyebrows hitched upward, but he didn’t answer for what seemed like half an eternity.

  “Very well, Angusel. I will order the patrol to check out your report. If there is a Scotti fleet, you can light the signal fire. And if not, there will be hell to pay. Not the viper pit.” He slapped the rod meaningfully against his palm. “But I think you can guess the punishment for wasting my time, and my patrol’s.”

  The Ayr Point mounted patrol left the outpost shortly after Angusel’s interview. Their report confirmed his story. Worse still, a column of black smoke was billowing out to sea from the direction of Tanroc. While the soldiers prepared for the withdrawal to Port Dhoo-Glass, Angusel was permitted to light the signal beacon to bring the Pendragon to the Isle of Maun.

  But the patrol had also returned with the still-warm body of a one-eyed Móranach cattle herder.

  A SHOUT pierced the din. The Scáthinach warriors ceased the attack. Glancing around, Gyan found herself to be the last bulwark of the defenseless brethren. The rest of her erstwhile band lay dead or dying around her. All of this, she realized with stark clarity, had been unnecessary. The Scáthinaich didn’t want the monastery, its treasures, or the monks. They wanted her. For what purpose, she could only guess. All she knew was that she had just led more than a score of good, brave men to their deaths, needlessly. How could she confess this to the other brethren, and to the One God? How could they ever forgive her? An anguished scream pounded at her teeth. She clenched her jaw to hold it back.

  She wanted nothing more than to lend what comfort she could to the wounded and to express her profoundest apologies to them for the grave error she had made. But the warrior who had issued the stop-attack order was striding toward her, the point of his sword leading the way as he stepped over the bodies of Scáthinach warriors and Breatanach monks. His battle-tunic and sword were streaked with blood, though Gyan could not recall fighting against him. If she had, he would not be moving now.

  She stood in flex-kneed wariness, her sword’s ruddy point leveled against his approach. Despite her grief for the fallen monks, first and foremost she was a warrior and vowed to conduct herself as one no matter what befell her, or those around her.

  “I order ye to surrender, Chieftainess Gyanhumara.”

  Her eyes narrowed to glaring slits as she buried the surprise sparked by his knowledge of her name, her rank, and Breatanaiche.

  “You must be mad,” she snarled. “I would rather die than surrender to a Scotti cur!”

  The Scáthinach commander refused to acknowledge her insult. “Chieftainess Gyanhumara, surely ye reali
ze that resisting is pointless. I can kill ye, if ye wish. Then we shall slaughter everyone else, and raze every building on the islet. But if ye surrender, the others shall be spared, and we willna break so much as an eggshell.” He lifted his sword in a salute. “By Scáthach, I swear it.”

  With every muscle tensed for combat, she reflected upon her options. That the Scáthinaich wanted her alive was obvious. The question was why. To be made a slave and probably concubine for one of their chieftains seemed the likeliest answer. Inwardly, she grimaced at the thought of being raped by a Scáth.

  Never! She would kill herself before that could happen. Perhaps even take a few more of the michaoduin with her. Yet her most important concern was the safety of the monastery, the Chalice and its Keeper, Brother Stefan and his students, and Morghe and Dafydd.

  The irony was that she was being forced to trade her freedom for the lives of others, including one man who knew firsthand what slavery was like.

  She thrust the sword point into the nearest Scáthinach corpse, released the hilt, and lowered her arm. The blade stood upright, quivering. By not delivering the sword directly into her captor’s hands, she had only surrendered the weapon, not her inner self. She froze in an attitude of proud defiance as the Scáthinach commander jerked her weapon from its grisly scabbard. At his signal, four warriors drew their swords and closed around her.

  Surprisingly, the commander showed every intention of honoring his part of the bargain. He ordered some of his men to pick up the score of warriors Gyan and her men had killed. The second-in-command was designated to take charge of the monastery, with half the remaining soldiers.

  As the Scáthinaich fanned out to take up positions around the compound, the Breatanach civilians dispersed. Several monks went to retrieve their dead. The others began filing into the church in subdued silence.

  “Commander Fergus, see what I have found!” One of the warriors held a bundle of auburn braids and flailing fists.